


Born as Hatched

by minusoneday



Series: Dragonmen Must Fly [2]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Derek/Kate, Dragons, Gen, Laura POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minusoneday/pseuds/minusoneday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura’s flamethrower is in pieces, spread across the blanket she’s laid out in the Bowl, and she’s just beginning to put it back together when two dragons - a bronze and a blue - burst into the sky overhead, massive wings spread out in a glide as they begin their descent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born as Hatched

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have not abandoned this series! I am just taking my very sweet time moving it along. Some things to know for this part:
> 
> 1\. As mentioned in the first part, "fostering" is a big part of Pern culture. The sons and daughters of Lord Holders are often sent to spend a few Turns (years) at other holds, to learn how to run a hold, as well as to make connections and form alliances. That's how Stiles and Scott got stuck with Jackson. The weyrs also practice fostering, albeit a slightly different sort. Dragonriders are far too busy caring for their dragons to raise their own children, so any children a dragonrider might have are fostered by a man/woman/couple who lives in the weyr and is NOT a dragonrider. The dragonrider can then be as involved in their children's lives as they wish. For the purposes of this story, Talia is the Weyrwoman of Beacon Weyr, and Laura and Derek are her children by birth, but they were not raised by her. They have a pleasant relationship, and they both admire her greatly, but they're not particularly close. Laura and Derek WERE, however, raised by the same foster mother. (Possibly Cora, too, idk if she's going to be in this yet or not.)
> 
> 2\. Leadership at the weyrs is, ridiculously, decided by mating flights. If a Queen dragon and her rider a) step down or b) are killed, leadership does not go to the most senior Queen dragon. Instead, the first Queen to rise to mate will take on the role of Weyrwoman. Completely and totally ridiculous, yes, but a delight to use for shaking things up, plotwise. :)
> 
> 3\. Dragons and their riders can communicate telepathically. If something is being thought rather than spoken, I will italicize it.
> 
> If anything else in this gets confusing, the [Pern Wiki](http://pern.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page) is a pretty good place to check things. And I am happy to answer any questions! Happy reading!

*

_By the Golden Egg of Faranth_  
By the Weyrwoman, wise and true,  
Breed a flight of bronze and brown wings  
Breed a flight of green and blue.  
Breed riders, strong and daring,  
Dragon-loving, born as hatched,  
Flight of hundreds soaring skyward,  
Man and dragon fully matched 

*

Laura’s flamethrower is in pieces, spread across the blanket she’s laid out in the Bowl, and she’s just beginning to put it back together when two dragons - a bronze and a blue - burst into the sky overhead, massive wings spread out in a glide as they begin their descent.

 _Fenrith and Lycanth,_ Cresenth supplies, her smooth, familiar voice suddenly filling Laura’s head.

 _Of course it’s them, you silly thing,_ Laura thinks back at her dragon. _Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own brother’s dragon?_ Cresenth gives a snort, and Laura chuckles to herself. _How are the eggs today, lovely?_ she asks.

 _Soon,_ Cresenth purrs. Something about her tone makes Laura think her eyes must be whirling with a faint red. _Lycanth says the candidates they carry are scrawny and young - couldn’t they find anyone better?_

Laura snorts back a laugh and sets to reassembling her flamethrower, finishing up just as Derek and Peter are sliding from their dragons’ backs, reaching hands up to the boys behind them. Laura leaves her flamethrower on the blanket and makes her way over to the group, casting a critical eye over the candidates. 

“Cresenth was right,” she says, gaze sweeping over the three young men who are too busy gaping to immediately notice her, mouths open as they take in the magnitude of Beacon Weyr. They’re a mess of gawky, lanky limbs, hands and feet that are far too big for the arms and legs to which they’re attached. One of the boys is slightly taller, broader through the shoulders - Laura pegs him at fourteen Turns, but the other two can’t have more than eleven or twelve to their names. 

“Are you planning to start a nursery wing?” Laura asks, offering Peter a skeptical look, but the man only chuckles, reaches out and ruffles the hair of one of the little ones, the one with floppy, messy hair, and a crooked jaw. 

“Mock all you want,” he says smoothly, “but none of my Fenrith’s chosen candidates have ever failed to Impress.” 

The boys’ faces turn from awe-struck to hope-filled, and Laura desperately smothers a laugh, not wanting to make them feel belittled or shamed. 

Derek, who has no such compunctions, rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you three to the barracks. Laura, how long until the Hatching starts?" 

“My best guess?” Laura says. “Sometime this evening." 

“Wait,” one of the boys says. This one is pale all over, skin dotted with dark moles, and he’s far more delicate-looking than the other two, with huge, amber eyes and an impish, upturned nose. There’s a cut over one of his eyebrows, and Laura thinks she can see the telltale beginnings of bruises along his cheekbone and jaw. Laura sneaks a curious glance at Derek, but he only shrugs. 

“How would you know when the eggs will hatch?” the boy asks, suspicious, almost, as if he’s unwilling to trust the word of someone he doesn’t know. 

Laura smirks and folds her arms over her chest. “Well, seeing as it’s my dragon’s clutch, I think I’d have more insight than anyone else.” 

The boy immediately colors, a pale pink flush racing into his cheeks, while his wonky-jawed friend elbows him and hisses, “ _Stiles_ ,” which Laura has to assume is a name, albeit one she’s never heard before. 

“I’m Laura,” she adds, allowing her smile to turn into something friendlier, a little less smug. 

“Danny,” the oldest says, followed by crooked-jaw, who offers a meek, “Scott.” 

Last is Stiles, still flushed and embarrassed, who mutters, “Stiles,” and then, “Sorry.” 

“No apologies necessary,” Laura says firmly. “Best of luck to all of you - I should check in with Cresenth, make sure no one’s bothering her.” 

She gives a wave as Derek herds the boys toward the weyrling barracks, Scott and Stiles bickering in low tones, though she can tell it’s the kind of arguing that true friends do, the sort that won’t actually turn into anything serious. 

“I wasn’t being facetious,” she says once they’re out of earshot. She turns, eyes Peter intently. “They’re very young.” 

Peter shrugs, careless. “Not much younger than you and Derek, when you Impressed,” he says. “Besides, Thread will begin falling within the Turn - we’re at full-strength now, but we need to start thinking about the future. We’ll lose riders, whether we want to believe it or not, and we’ll need young, strong people to fill in the ranks later on. We’ll fare better if they’re already trained up and ready to go.” 

It’s an unpleasant thought, but that doesn’t make it any less true, and Laura’s mouth tightens just thinking about it. 

“Besides,” Peter continues, “Fenrith was adamant about Scott.” 

Laura tilts her head curiously. “Not the other two?” she asks. 

“Fenrith saw plenty of potential in Danny,” Peter says. “Stiles was… well. Scott wouldn’t have come without him.” 

Laura can’t quite help shooting a sharp look at that, not that Peter looks remotely sorry. A dragon’s intuition isn’t the end all be all of Impression, of course. Plenty of search dragons pick young men and women who don’t ever Impress, just as dragons have been known to choose the occasional weyrperson, one who was never meant to be presented as a candidate. Still, the thought that Peter has led Stiles on, made him think he’s got a better chance than he actually does, leaves a sour taste in her stomach. 

“I hope he Impresses a Queen,” Laura says disapprovingly. “Just to prove you wrong.” 

“The eggs crack as they will,” Peter says, hands open wide in an expansive, what-can-you-do gesture. “Now, Fenrith here would like to be fed, and I believe you said something about attending to your Queen.” 

It’s a dismissal, clear as day, despite the fact that Laura outranks him. She could call him on that, of course, but it’s honestly not worth the energy. Still, her steps are stiff and irritated as she makes her way back to her blanket, scooping her flamethrower off the ground, then changing course toward the Hatching sands. 

Cresenth is curled protectively over her clutch, as she always is these days, though her head lifts up when Laura walks in, her eyes swirling a contented blue for just a moment, before the red begins to creep back in as she picks up on Laura’s foul mood. 

_Peter,_ Laura thinks, not that her dragon actually needs an explanation, not when she’s already inside Laura’s head. _I’d rather not dwell on him. Why don’t we make a trip down to the lake? It’s been awhile since you’ve had a proper bath._

The red in Cresenth’s eyes deepens, and she hunches protectively over her eggs. Laura’s gotten well-used to such behavior over the past few weeks, however, and so she just rolls her eyes, reaches up to scratch gently along her dragon’s neck until the great creature allows her eyes to slip closed, crooning softly. 

“There you are,” Laura murmurs out loud. “You’re sure you don’t want to bathe? You could pretty yourself all up for the Hatching.” 

_Are you saying I’m not pretty?_ Cresenth thinks, cracking open one beautifully-faceted eye, but there’s a smug, amused note in the thought, like she knows perfectly well what Laura’s answer is. 

“You’re fishing,” Laura scolds, but she’s hard-pressed to keep a smile off her face, and in the end she simply curls up beside her dragon, keeping her company while Cresenth keeps watch over her eggs. 

It isn’t long before she falls asleep. 

*

When Laura awakes, it’s to a bone-deep thrumming, a rumbling that seeps into her very bones. It’s a noise she _feels_ more than hears, and it’s one she immediately recognizes. She scrambles to her feet, quickly brushing the hot sand from her clothes. Cresenth is no longer at her back, she realizes, and when she turns, she sees that her dragon has shifted a few feet away, neck curled protectively around the biggest egg of the clutch - the one everyone’s fairly certain will be another queen.

“Oh, it’s starting, isn’t it,” Laura breathes, excitement leaping into her throat. It’s not their first Hatching, hers and Cresenth’s, but that doesn’t dim Laura’s elation in the slightest.

Already, the Hatching cavern is beginning to fill with the dragons and riders who haven’t been tasked with rounding up the invited guests. It’s good practice to invite Lord and Lady Holders, as well as some of the craftsfolk, and even some of the candidates’ families, if there’s enough room in the cavern.

The next few minutes are a jumble of activity, but Laura is mostly attuned to Cresenth, who’s putting on her best protective airs towards anyone who wanders too close to the eggs.

“Stop that,” Laura reprimands, just as the line of white-clad candidates begins to file in. “You’ve done this before, no need to terrify the guests.”

 _There is every need,_ Cresenth says loftily, but she subsides, at least, pulling back as the candidates draw nearer.

It’s a large, mixed group - Scott and Stiles are the youngest by at least a couple Turns, and the oldest candidates look like they reach well into their mid-twenties. The young men and women range themselves in a semi-circle, looking hungrily at the eggs and warily at Cresenth.

Stiles catches her eye and turns beet-red once more, but gives her a half-hearted wave, which makes her smile. Scott tugs on his arm in the next instant, pointing into the sea of guests, toward a woman with curly, black hair, seated beside a man with a tanned, weathered face. The two of them break into beaming smiles as the boys turn toward them.

They must be their parents, Laura thinks, a bit wistfully. Things are done differently by the commoners who live in the Weyrs. They stay with their birth parents all through childhood, no fostering to speak of. It’s different for dragonriders, who simply don’t have the time to take care of both dragons and squalling infants. Laura is close to her foster mother, of course, but seeing the two boys smile at their parents, she can’t help but wish she had such a relationship with her birth mother.

Speaking of, Talia is coming toward her now, looking every inch the powerful Weyrwoman that she is.

“Talia, hello,” Laura says, standing up a little straight.

“Laura,” Talia says warmly. She looks over the eggs and the assembled crowd and nods approvingly. “Cresenth should be proud - it’s a fine clutch she has here.”

“Thank you,” Laura says, and a burst of pleasure zings through her when Talia steps forward and wraps her up in a hug.

“I’m very proud of you,” she murmurs, and as she pulls away, she offers Laura a wink. “You’ll make a fine Weyrwoman one day.”

Laura gapes at her as she moves off, her words taking longer than they should to properly sink in. The Weyr’s succession laws are traditional, and therefore completely archaic, determined by mating flights rather than competence, and there’s never quite a guarantee that the Weyrwoman’s favored rider will ascend to her post. There are ways to give your preferred Queen rider a fighting chance, however, and Laura has a sudden feeling that a few years down the road, when Talia’s ready to step down, she may time it as close as she can to Cresenth’s next mating flight.

The dragons’ humming ratchets up a few notches, and Laura hears the distinct first crack of an egg. She edges to the side, out of the way of the eggs and the candidates, and finds herself beside her brother.

“What was that all about, with Talia?” Derek asks curiously, leaning in so as to ask his question in an undertone.

“I think Talia just hinted she’s picked me as her successor,” Laura says faintly, and that’s when the first eggs splits open and a bronze dragon tumbles out.

The collected crowd roars its appreciation, as the dragons above and behind them bugle their approval. The tiny dragon surveys its surroundings imperiously, then seems to lock onto someone in particular. The candidates scurry out of the way as the dragon lurches forward, finally tumbling to a stop in front of a tall, thin girl with dark, flowing hair.

“That’s Allison,” Derek says excitedly. “She’s Kate’s niece.”

“He’s a fine-looking bronze,” Laura says, not particularly interested in talking about Kate right now. Or ever. She doesn’t approve of the time Derek’s been spending with her, but it’s not really her place to say anything.

The rest of the eggs begin to crack, and it’s all Laura can do to keep up with with the action. Hatchings are always messy and chaotic, and Laura swells with each new impression she witnesses, heart leaping as she remembers the moment she had first locked eyes with Cresenth, the way her mind had filled with warmth and _love_ , the knowledge that she would never, ever be alone again.

All at once the cavern quiets down, and as Laura looks around, she realizes that most of the eggs have cracked, the newly-hatched dragons toddling off on unsteady legs with their bonded riders.

The reason for the hush, Laura soon discovers, is that a long, crooked crack has formed down the center of the biggest egg. It feels as if the entire crowd holds its breath as the crack lengthens, bits of shell flaking away.

“Come on,” Laura whispers, while in the background, Cresenth croons sweetly, her huge, brilliant head hovering protectively over the egg.

All at once, the egg splits properly down the middle, and a golden dragonet comes tumbling out. Two dragonless candidates step forward to help set the ungainly creature upright, but she lashes out with her claws, and they quickly jump back.

She clearly doesn’t need the help, struggling to her feet all on her own, then looking imperiously about, already surveying her territory. Once she’s had a good look, she doesn’t hesitate; she sets off in a straight line, directly for Scott, who comes to meet her halfway, his big brown eyes lit up with wonder.

“Hello,” he gasps, falling to his knees before her, while she headbutts him in the chest, probably angling for a scratch behind her eye ridge. “You - _oh_ \- she says her name is Alfareth!”

A cheer goes up from the spectators, and Laura glances up quickly enough to see Scott’s mother wiping streaming tears from her cheeks. She’s not the only one; Laura’s cheeks are also uncomfortably damp, and she pointedly doesn’t look at Derek as he digs out a handkerchief from his pocket and passes it to her without comment.

There’s nothing like the moment of Impression; Laura is so thankful she gets to relive it with each and every Hatching.

The few remaining dragonets have quietly hatched and made their matches, while everyone else was focused on Alfareth’s grand entrance. All around, the brand-new dragonriders are guiding the small, bumbling creatures toward the caverns, where there will be plenty of raw meat for them to gobble down. 

_Oh, lovely,_ Laura directs toward her dragon, quiet and private, _look at what you did_.

 _It was a good Hatching_ , Cresenth says smugly. _Now, I would like that bath_.

Laura laughs, then quickly vaults astride her dragon so they can fly down to the lake for a good scrub.

*

Hatchings are joyous, festive events, and the kitchen has once again outdone itself. There are steaming platters of smoked fish and roasted meat making their way to the tables that have been set up, not to mention the tubers and fresh redfruit that accompany them. Laura wonders where it came from, considering the cold season is upon them, then figures it was probably Peter, making another one of his not-entirely-approved jumps to the Southern Continent.

There’s not just food, of course; the wine is also flowing freely, and the more glasses that get refilled, the louder and more raucous the party becomes.

The dragonets, greedy guts that they are, are sleeping off bellyfulls of meat, while the newly-impressed riders grab suppers of their own, laughing and beaming, thrilled with their good fortune. Laura spots Scott surrounded by a throng of well-wishers and makes a mental note to welcome him later. Nearby is Danny, who managed to Impress a blue.

She doesn’t see Stiles, she realizes, and the thought sobers her up a bit. Stiles, she knows, didn’t Impress; it’s probably a bitter disappointment to bear, when the two boys he was Searched with both did.

As Laura’s making her way back to the kitchens to check in with the Headwoman, she hears a deep laugh roll out from the table on her right.

“That’s five marks you owe me!” a huge, muscled man says delightedly. He’s talking to Peter, Laura realizes. “So much for your claim that Fenrith hasn’t Searched a dud yet. There wasn’t a dragonet out there that even came near that third boy, the scrawny one!”

“Now, now, Ennis,” Peter says, his voice carrying in the way it does when he’s well into his cups. “That might be true if Fenrith had actually Searched him.”

A mighty scowl appears on Ennis’ face. “Now see here, Peter,” he says threateningly, “don’t you go rewriting history now. You Searched the boy, he failed to Impress, and I want my money.”

“I didn’t Search him,” Peter says loudly. “His friend - Scott, the boy who Impressed the _Queen_ egg, mind you - he wouldn’t have come without him! It was a truly touching display, I assure you, but I _asked_ Fenrith, and he couldn’t sense an ounce of dragonrider in the boy. It was a bribe for Scott, nothing more. Which means Fenrith’s record _holds_.”

He slaps the table for emphasis and Laura jumps back, startled, and crashes into someone standing behind her.

When she turns, she finds herself looking down at Stiles, who is staring straight past her at Peter. His ears, she notes have gone very pink.

Before she can say a word, he darts away; without thinking twice about it, she goes after him.

He weaves through the crowd easily, and a few times, she nearly loses him. He’s small and quick - it wouldn’t surprise her if he was a runner, maybe, before he got Searched - but she finally catches up to him just outside the main cavern, where the Weyr and its guests are all enjoying themselves to the fullest.

“Stiles!” she calls out, and he takes another few half-hearted jogs before he pulls up short, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if stopping is the last thing on earth he wants to be doing.

Laura very carefully lays a hand on his shoulder and turns him to face her. There are tear tracks down his cheeks, and he scrubs roughly at his face with his sleeve, looking horribly embarrassed.

Boys with only twelve Turns to their name, Laura reminds herself, are still awfully young.

“You heard what Peter said?” she asks gently, and Stiles nods, shoulders stiffening. With some visible effort, he forces his face as blank as blank can be, as if he’s expecting more harsh words from Laura.

“Peter,” Laura says, “is full of dragon dung,” and the flash of surprise across Stiles’ face makes her smile. 

“Come here,” she adds, leading Stiles to a bench that some long-ago crafter carved out of the stone wall. “Sit with me for a moment.

Stiles follows her obediently, sitting stiffly beside her, shoulders hunched but chin still lifted, defiance in the line of it. She likes seeing that - she can respect someone with a backbone.

“There are dragons who are sensitive to what makes a good candidate,” Laura begins. “Fenrith is one of those, to be sure.” Stiles seems to wilt right before her eyes, and so Laura hurriedly continues on. “But Stiles, no single dragon is attuned to _every_ perfect candidate. If that were the case, why would we waste our time sending other dragons out on Search?”

Stiles looks more confused than anything else, so Laura sighs, trying to think of another way to put it.

“Look,” she says kindly. “The candidates that Fenrith chooses tend to Impress. But that doesn’t mean that candidates he’s overlooked haven’t _also_ gone on to become dragonriders.”

Understanding spreads over Stiles’ face, clearing away some of the misery. It only lasts for a brief second, and then his expression falls once more.

“But I’ve missed my chance,” he says quietly. “I didn’t Impress.”

“At _this_ Hatching,” Laura says, placing her stress carefully. “There will be others.”

It takes a long second for that to sink in, too, but Laura can tell the exact moment it hits by the way Stiles’ eyes go huge, by the choking gasp he drags in.

“I could stay?” he asks, his voice cracking in the way voices do for boys his age. “I don’t have to leave?”

“Once a candidate has been Searched, it’s up to them, whether they want to return to their hold or stay on at the Weyr,” Laura says.

“I could stay,” Stiles whispers, more to himself than Laura. His hand makes an aborted gesture, but Laura has a feeling he was reaching toward the cut over his eyebrow. Once he realizes what he’s doing, he very quickly places his hand back in his lip, fingers curled into his palm.

“Could… could I stand at a Hatching again?” he asks tentatively, clearly hardly daring to hope.

“Until you get too old,” Laura says, “although there should be plenty of Hatchings between now and then, so I wouldn’t be too worried.” She winks at him, and then can’t help but grin herself when Stiles outright beams at her. It fits his face far, far better than his earlier sadness.

“Now,” Laura says, nodding toward the main cavern, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Scott wanted to check in on his dragon soon. I have a feeling he wouldn’t mind showing her off to his best friend.”

Stiles’ own grin widens, and he ducks his head in acknowledgment. Which, good, Laura thinks. It’s a good sign that he’s happy for his friend, not jealous or bitter. It makes Laura feel like she’s made the right call with him.

“Go on,” she says, making it a friendly sort of order. “Go see your friend. And grab yourself a wherry leg on your way, have you _seen_ how much food there is? I’m expecting you to do your part and make a dent in it.”

“I think I can do that,” Stiles says happily, and when he gets to his feet, there’s an obvious spring in his step that wasn’t there before. “And - and Laura? Thank you.”

Laura just waves him off, smiling to herself as he disappears. She’s surprised by just how much she already likes him, and if she does say so herself, her intuition’s just as good as Fenrith’s. Stiles is outgoing and good-hearted, stubborn and full of spitfire; he would, in Laura’s professional opinion, make an excellent dragonrider. Time will tell, she supposes. 

In the meantime, she has a dragon to look in on, new riders to greet, and a feast to enjoy.


End file.
